


all these demons lie with me in my head

by foxxwrites



Series: bellarke bingo [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bellamy's a nerd, Bellarke Bingo, F/M, Human!Bellamy, Vampire!Clarke, clarke's lived through all his favourite historical events, heart over head bellamy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 06:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19661941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxwrites/pseuds/foxxwrites
Summary: clarke ticks all the boxes of things bellamy could want in a distraction and bellamy ticks all the boxes of things clarke could want in a victim.





	all these demons lie with me in my head

**Author's Note:**

> Bingo spots fulfilled: Vampire AU, Bellamy Blake is a history nerd, Flash backs  
> you can join this challenge on tumblr (user: bellarkebingo)

Clarke likes pretty things. She’s collected them for centuries, shining necklaces and sparkling rings. She can’t get enough. But it’s the pretty humans that enamour her the most. Soft flesh, beating hearts and full lips. Those are her favourite things.

Clarke has a small problem. Her desires often get the best of her. Her teeth ache for something pretty, it’s a haunting daze of lust and greed. If she was clever, she wouldn’t keep coming back to these dark, people filled clubs every night, but the way they all jump around, their pulse rising and inviting her, all huddled together like tiny targets. She just can’t get enough.

The soft buzz in her ear makes its way around her head, wrapping her brain in a beautiful numbness. That’s the problem with indulging, it just feels so _damn_ _good_.

Clarke gently caresses the cheek of the girl on her lap. She was delicious. She had the most beautiful full lips and sun kissed skin, and Clarke thought about taking her home and playing with those lush lips, but pretty things make her just _so hungry_.

She’s full and dizzy as she stands up, a plump drop of blood journeys from the corner of her lips tantalizingly slowly down to her chin. She feels invigorated.

It’s not that she doesn’t care for the girl, she’s had victims she cared deeply for, nurtured them lovingly to death, don’t _tell her_ she doesn’t care, because when she drops the girl on the nightclub floor and walks away, she leaves her alive, _as a_ _kindness_.

* * *

She had been in Italy the first time she cried over a victim.

* * *

It is sweet in Italy, the wind tastes of strawberries and the grass is dewy and calming under her bare feet. Clarke wiggles her toes and breathes in. She decides to stay here, at least for a little while.

He asks her to be apart of his picnic outing, and she smiles a toothy, excited grin, she cannot wait for him to be _a part_ of her picnic.

When he speaks, she hesitates. He makes her chuckle, she finds herself enjoying his brashness. Admiring his dark locks, she runs her finger along his arm suggestively. _Finn_. She keeps him alive for two weeks.

She’s starving when she eats him, _messy_. Waterfalls of red gush down his clothes and as she gulps it stains her lips. Pulling back, Clarke admires how dark his hair is once more. Watching his eyes slip permanently shut, she gently touches his cheek, just for a sweet, brief moment.

It’s when she’s in bed that night, alone, that water wells in her eyes. Her sheets are cold and her mind is no longer in its haze from feeding. She realises she misses him. She realises she felt things, besides hunger, but she doesn’t want to believe it. So she cries for the boy that adored her, and in the morning, she moves on.

* * *

She makes her way onto the dance floor, swaying her head from side to side, feeling the beat of the music pound in her sensitive ears. Bodies press up against her, they twist and shake and bend. Clarke inhales lavishly at the tempting sound of all the pumping veins that surround her.

Her gums throb in an excited, childish way. She knows she has the pick of the litter, she knows she could lure anyone here away and into the darkness. She knows that she'd enjoy that.

Every year more and more skin is exposed, the humans fight the system this way. She would encourage this of course, how easy it is to bite and tear and break when they're willingly showing off their alluring arteries. Humans ignorance is the single most precious gift a vampire could ask for. 

As a creature of the night, Clarke finds many things to enjoy in life. She collects the finest of jewels, some from other women's open necks, some from suitors over the centuries. But they are all so pretty. She collects gowns galore, ones made especially for her, ones made especially for princesses and queens. She considered becoming a queen once, but decided being invisible was much more advantageous. She collects people, likes to think she's tried one of every kind there is, and they were all so very _pretty pretty pretty pretty_ —

Roan would say she’s spoilt, and he’d be right. At least it's her that spoils herself.

* * *

She was in Romania when she first met Roan.

* * *

The climate is not agreeing with her in the slightest, she’d much rather the cool breezes of Switzerland than the ridiculous, blinding hot sun. She voices as much.

“Find someone to play with,” Anya pops a grape into her mouth, “It’ll cheer you up.”

Clarke hums as she dances her way through the city, her dress flapping around her ankles and her hair lose and wild and free. She fans herself as she scans the crowd, her eyes latch on to a similarly black pair.

A warning hiss escapes Clarke’s mouth as the vampire approaches her. He sizes her up, eyes narrow and cold.

“Are you Luna’s?”

Clarke growls, “I’m no one’s.”

He blinks, almost amused, “Who made you?”

“I made me.”

This time he laughs, “Will you answer this way to every question I ask?”

“Will you keep asking me condescending questions?”

He tilts his head, hums, “I’m Roan.”

“I’m Clarke.”

“You’re interesting, Clarke.”

She smiles smugly, takes his hand and leads him toward the unsuspecting public.

* * *

Clarke suffers from a deadly affliction, she wants too much. Most vampires are greedy for blood but she longs for affection and praise and company. She wants a friend, yet every one she makes leaves once they find something better.

Anya left for a boy in France, Emori ran off with a criminal in New Jersey, and Roan will never leave Romania because as much as him and Luna attack and one up each other he loves her too much, _and the idiot doesn’t even know it_.

She really does wish for someone to be loyal to her, someone who would stay by her side, no matter what. She wants what so many have, but knows forever is too long to ask for. It's a _need_ deep within her, primal and lurking.

Time passes on and on and on, and yet, she still feels the same things over and over again. Sometimes she thinks she's trapped in a hamster ball, running and running and running around, forever making the same mistakes.

She can recognise love when she sees it. It's not in what they're saying but how they say it, it's not in what they're doing but who they're doing it for.

Love is a thunder storm that hits when you least expect it, but Roan's love is like a volcano and its bubbling up to the surface, bound to come out one of these days. Clarke's jealous, and tired, and sad. She wants to be back in Russia again, meeting Anya and spending years being two content single girls, taking over one city at a time.

She just wants someone who'll understand her and keep their word when they say they're going to be best friends _forever_.

She feels numb coming down from her high. She feels dull and bleak and bored, _and hungry_.

* * *

But she felt love, once.

* * *

Germany is big, bold and war hungry. She enjoys it. The men are sent to fight self made enemies and the women are finally allowed to work.

Clarke is extremely pleased with the all female companionship. She joins a book club, simply planning to have a big feast, but then there’s this girl. She’s angry and loud and defiant. Clarke falls in love with her.

 _Lexa_ argues with her over every little thing and it excites her so very much. When she kisses her, it’s rough and rushed and desperate.

They both consider themselves the alpha. _Oh, little girl_ , she thinks to herself one night swiping a hand daintily down Lexa’s smooth back, _if only you knew_. She keeps her alive for six months.

When she eats her, she is ravenous, _sensual_. She takes her time, drinking from her thighs, her arms, her neck, she consumes her eagerly. Slow and gentle and clean, but determined. She wants her dominance to finally be stated. She wants to be in charge. She wants to _win_.

Alone in Berlin, this is the second time she cries in her immortal life. She realises she will be alone forever. She realises the way she loves is destruction. She realises she’s still _hungry_.

* * *

Blood is hypnotic, it’s a drug that always wins over every good thing she collects. She thinks she may be doomed, and it’s not fair, because she didn’t choose this. She died and woke up again and it isn’t her fault. But she dances and ignores all the aching in her heart and her head. It’s all she can do.

Immediately, she can sense it. Someone has cut themselves and a tiny bit of glorious temptation seeps out into the air and then into Clarke’s eager nostrils. Her body moves towards the mouthwatering scent. Clarke opens her eyes when her stomach hits into the edge of the Bar. Licking her lips, she glances around for any sight of beautiful, satiating red.

“Can I get you anything?” the bartender inquires.

“Shot of Vodka,” she answers offhandedly, still scanning the area.

“Straight Vodka,” the man beside her mutters, his disapproval evident in his tone. Clarke’s eyes flip to him like a snake’s would, fast and scathing. She admires how well his clothes hug his frame, how firm his arms appear to be, and how messy his hair falls. _Pretty_.

“In Chernobyl people were told to drink Vodka to reduce their chances of getting thyroid cancer.”

His eyes light up as he turns to look at her, “Yes, I—I know that, actually. Do you—Are you— I’m Bellamy.”

He’s surprised. He’s intrigued. He’s _very_ attractive.

Oh, how nice he’ll taste.

“Well, _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke inches closer, teeth flashing him brazenly, “Instead, why don’t you get me a Bloody Mary?”

She laughs heartily at her own private joke, her smokey eyes blinking flirtatiously.

“Alright,” Bellamy whispers, eyes glued to the fascinating blonde in her tight, black dress. He could definitely appreciate the cleavage it exposed to his devious gaze.

“Alright,” she mirrors him, her fingers twitching, urging her to go for the throat. But the fun is in the wait, the anticipation, the _hunt_.

“I didn’t really mean to be—” he scratches the back of his neck, his other hand gripped tightly around his beer, “I just saw the blonde hair and heard your drink order and—”

“Thought I was a basic bitch?”

His cheeks display the smallest hint of pink, “I was just thinking about how all girls here seem to be the same, but,” his eyes meets hers, “I think I was wrong.”

Clarke drags her bottom lip between her teeth, “Oh, Bellamy, you’ve never met a girl like me.”

* * *

India was an everlasting party.

* * *

Stunning festivals, gorgeous gowns and rich, exquisite culture. She stays a whole thirteen months in India. The dancing, the singing, the excitement. It energizes her. Fine wines, fine food, pretty women. She barely ever sits down.

Her soul is untamed and joyous and _pure_. She collects flowers every morning in her tiny, woven basket and skips around the village she’s planted herself into. They know her, every single neighbour, and she tells them her real name this time. She’s soft and silly and surprised at the calm, warm glow in her chest.

She stays a whole thirteen months and then she runs away. She doesn’t want to ruin it. She doesn’t want to destroy what she holds so dear. She doesn’t want to be so _hungry_.

She yearns to feel the sweet, loving taste on her tongue. She wants to cut everyone she meets open and lay in a river of thick, dazzling crimson. Clarke would close her eyes and sink into it, she would let it have her, have _all_ of her.

Except there’s a voice in her head that keeps telling her it's wrong. How can the only thing in this world that makes sense to her be _wrong_? She’s attached, like a crazy ex girlfriend. All she can think about is fresh, flowing _blood_. She can’t have her own back so she’ll steal another and weep for the good old times.

If blood could love her, she’d be whole again.

But it can’t—

— _and neither can anyone else_.

* * *

Clarke allows Bellamy to lead her away from the bar and out into the smoking area. It’s less noisy and less crowded— _less witnesses_ —and he thinks it’s his idea.

He leans against the wall and sips his beer, calmly observing the other people in groups around the patio. He watches the smoke exit their mouths and float like a ghost into the air. Bellamy glances down and picks up a small bowl of olives on teeny sticks.

“Want one?” he offers her the bowl, “I think they’re mostly decorative but people do eat them.”

“No, thanks. I don’t really eat— _that_.”

He nods, staring down at the olives, “In Ancient Greece some people wouldn’t eat beans because they believed that they contained the souls of the dead,” he shuffles nervously, feeling a tad too nerdy.

Clarke tilts her head, admiring him quietly, “You like Greece?”

“I like the Greeks, their ideals and beliefs. It’s sort of— _magical_.”

Clarke beams, bemused, “Have you been?”

“No, I haven’t been anywhere,” he shrugs, eyes suddenly interested in the ground.

“The Ancient Greeks invented the theater,” Clarke wants to feel the heat of his blushing skin but holds herself back.

Bellamy hums and mutters, “They have an abundance of olives in Greece.”

Clarke smiles, slow and heartfelt, “In Antarctica there’s a glacier named _Blood Fall_ that regularly pours out red liquid, it looks like the ice is bleeding.”

Bellamy’s head pops up, his eyebrows furrowing, “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s beautiful,” her breath is almost taken away by the memory itself.

“Is it?” He tilts his head playfully, his nose wrinkling.

“Yes,” Clarke giggles, “I have obscene tastes, though.”

“I don’t have much in common with most people.”

“Really? How about the gym? You look like you work out.”

“Oh, well,” he smirks, “Thank you.”

Clarke slides closer to him, voice low and inviting, “I think you’re pretty.”

His eye shine into hers, his lips twitching at the corner, unsure of what to say.

“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet,” Clarke tells him earnestly.

Bellamy’s eyebrows jump up but his voice is tight and deep, “You are forward, aren’t you?”

She closes her eyes and inhales. Her nose fills with his scent, chemicals, chlorine and sharpies all slightly masked over by his earthy cologne. Clarke opens her eyes, quizzically gazing at him. Perhaps he went for a swim and then drew a picture. No, that’s not it.

What an interesting puzzle for her to solve.


End file.
